


je marche mieux quand ma main serre la tienne

by ellispage21



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Colors, Rainbows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-15 19:19:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13037706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellispage21/pseuds/ellispage21
Summary: enjolras and grantaire, told through every colour of the rainbow





	1. rouge

Red is the colour of Grantaire’s chin as strawberry juice dribbled down it.

 

It was summertime, and they were in the park. Enjolras had ended the meeting early, encouraged somewhat by the sweltering heat, and the necessity for fresh air. Sitting on the bright grass, their shirts unbuttoned to their sternums, they relaxed. The summer term was almost finished, which meant they had three months to themselves, and they had already started to make plans.

“And the 3rd of August?”

“Ah,” said Courfeyrac, swatting away a mosquito, “I can’t. I’m going to Tuscany from the 1st to the 8th. I could do the 30th or the 10th?”

Combeferre shook his head, “my sister is getting married on the 11th, we are going to Brittany.” He scratched his cheek, and adjusted his glasses, rubbing at where they had bitten into the bridge of his nose, “perhaps the week after?”

Enjolras threw down his hand in despair, “that’s too late! It ends on the 15th.”

From the other side of the picnic blanket, Grantaire rolled over onto his stomach to face them. He took the bottle of strawberry juice that Marius had brought (or, rather, that Cosette had given to him) and poured some languidly into his mouth.

Enjolras grimaced and nudged him with his foot, “really, must you do that? I’d rather you not.”

He shrugged, and continued nevertheless, “it tastes better.” He replied, between gulps.

The juice spilt from his lips down onto his starched shirt, staining it red.

“Now look what a mess you’ve made!” he chastised, but Grantaire laughed, and rubbed at it with his closed fist, making the stain inarguably worse, “you’re all red.”

“Coral is far more red than her lips red. I have seen roses damasked, red and white.”

Courfeyrac smiled, “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

“I have no time for Shakespeare, I’m trying to schedule our meetings.” Enjolras sighed exasperatedly.

Grantaire put one hand on his chest in mock disbelief, “no ti-no time for Shakespeare. Am I hearing that right?”

“You are correct. Now ba-”

“I love to hear him speak, yet well I know that music has a far more pleasing sound. I grant I never saw a goddess go. My master when he walks treads on the ground, and yet, by Heaven, I think my love is rare, as any he belied with false compare.”

With a smug grin, he took another swig of the juice, and moved to lean onto his elbows. Enjolras put his head in his hands and groaned loudly.

“That’s the end of the poem, don’t worry.” He assured him, an easy smile on his face.

 

Courfeyrac, who had read English literature extensively at school tapped Grantaire lightly on the knee, which made him sit up.

“Isn’t that poem about a girl, a mistress?” he asked lowly, as the others began to announce their summer plans whilst Enjolras scribbled out dates in irritation.

He smiled and nodded, “I prefer my version.” He told him, turning his head slightly to look at Enjolras.

Courfeyrac saw his gaze change, and watched as his pupils dilated at the sight of the blond.

“Me too,” he replied quietly, “me too.”

 

 

 

Red is the colour of Enjolras’ blood as it sprayed from his chest.

 

His body, pierced by bullet holes, flung back by the sheer force of the gunpowder. His feet leave the ground for the last time, as his spine cracked against the window frame. His fingers are curled tightly around Grantaire’s, whose corpse was right beneath him. He was stiff, and cold, and heavy. He was merely a boy.

The buildings outside of the window were high, their shadows casting a grim darkness over the broken barricade and its fallen children. The ground was slippery with thick, dark blood: soldiers mixing with revolutionaries, a melange of good and evil (but from whose perspective?)

His fingers remain coiled, as though he was holding on, so he didn’t fall again. His lungs were completely empty of air, his heart ceased to beat, his eyes were rolled back in his blood-stained head. The cold wind whistled through the empty room, and it said, “these little boys are dead.”

 

When the mourners found them, they unfurled their fingers, untangled their bodies. They picked them up, one by one, and carried them to the park. Graves had been cleared all that morning, waiting for the little dead boys to fill them up.

Enjolras was lowered carefully into the dirt, no bloodstain on his clean shirt, no wound to tell the story of his death. Somebody picked flowers, and they are scattered into the fresh mud around him. They did not have more dirt to spread, but the grave had a tree nearby, and the grass was growing high in the summer sun. Here, he would rest forever, with a crown of innocently tied daisies adorning his head.

They left him behind, in the park, in the grass, in the shadow of the tree. Their tears were warm, but his skin was marble cold. One went back, feverishly searched for a spade, and finally covered their graves: little brave boys do not deserve to rot in the open sunlight. They were sheltered one last time, they were safe.

Red seeped into the soil around him as maggots feasted on his rotting skin. Red trickled out of his carcass as his organs began to erode. Red was the fabric of his infamous jacket, degrading into the earth, as people tread above him, echoing his name like the breeze through the willow trees that surrounded their unsightly graveyard. Red is the colour of Enjolras, resilient and courageous until the end.


	2. orange

Orange is the colour of Enjolras’ favourite flower.

 

Everyone knew this. Everyone except Grantaire, apparently. He had made it his mission to find out the favourite flowers of all of the Amis, as he lived right above a florist. On their birthdays, he would always ensure that there was a freshly trimmed bouquet adorning every table at the Musain. He had kept a track of them all on a scrunched-up piece of paper stuffed in his decayed wallet, which he may or may not have found on the street (he definitely did):

Jehan – roses  
Feuilly – tulips  
Joly – carnations  
Marius – daisies  
Bossuet – sunflowers  
Enjolras – ~~irises~~ ~~roses~~ ~~tulips~~ ? ~~carnations~~ ~~daisies~~ ~~magnolia~~ ! ~~jasmine~~ ~~hyacinth~~  
Combeferre – daffodils   
Courfeyrac – orchids

On days which weren’t particularly spectacular or celebratory, he would practice by bringing in random flowers and studying Enjolras’ expression. Most of the time it was nothing more than a cursory glance at what on Earth he was doing, and then it was back to work. Once, though, he did manage to coax him into cutting the stems off of some lilies. Lilies are definitely _not_ Enjolras’ favourite flower.

 

Enjolras’ birthday was approaching rapidly, and Grantaire was at the end of his tether. He had searched high and low for obscure flowers, for normal flowers, for flowers from the south, and the north, and the west, and the east: nothing, nichts, nada, rien. _Perhaps_ , he thought, _Enjolras didn’t like flowers? Perhaps he was plagued by hay fever? Perhaps he had suffered some sort of terribly traumatising flower-based incident as a child, such as his father shearing his fingers off to bring his mother a few measly buds, or his insanely religious parents forcing a crown of rose thorns onto his head in a quasi-Jesus style fashion, or_ \--

His thought process was abruptly cut short as he tripped over the leg of a stall jutting from the pavement. His knees bled through the ripped fabric, and his palms were covered in dirt and leaves.

“I’m so sorry,” a young girl said to him as he picked himself up, wincing when his skin rubbed against his trousers, “please. Take these as an apology.”

She held out a semi-mangled bunch of flowers, and Grantaire noted that he hadn’t seen them before in France.

“Thanks.” He grumbled, rubbing the dust off of his jacket sleeves, and tucking them into his pocket.

 

When he arrived at the Musain, he shrugged his coat off and rummaged through the material.

“I know it’s nobody’s birthday, but I did just survive quite a horrific fall.” He told the Amis solemnly, “I got given these flowers, they’d probably be on my grave if I wasn’t still alive.”

“Yet unfortunately, you are.” Enjolras spoke from the corner, heavily focussed on the notes in front of him.

Grantaire rolled his eyes, “fulfilling my duty of making you all regret inviting me.” He replied cheerfully, leaving the flowers on the table.

“Consider it fulfilled.” Enjolras muttered without looking up, “Now— _oh._ ”

“Are you quite alright?” Courfeyrac asked, uncrossing his legs from under the table. The room fell silent momentarily, and then Enjolras said, “I haven’t seen these since I was a child.”

Grantaire’s heart began to beat a little bit faster, “orange flowers?”

“No, no,” Enjolras smiled and shook his head, “marigolds. They’re my favourite flower.”

Unable to stop himself, Grantaire laughed, then swiftly covered his mouth with his grubby hands.

“What’s so funny?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He chuckled. Red and gold, _he should have guessed._

 

For the rest of that month, Grantaire brought marigolds to the Musain, for ‘Enjolras’ birthday month’, which as Bossuet astutely remarked, wasn’t actually that month at all, so he brought them all of the following month, too. Despite the hideous debt it caused, it was worth the threadbare socks to see the smile on Enjolras’ face every afternoon.

 

 

 

Orange is the colour of the last sunset they see.

 

They’re all at the barricade, all of Les Amis, drinking as though their lives depended on it. From the decrepit balcony of the Café, Enjolras watched them sadly. He wore his pain in his eyes; cold and distant, but staring made it visible. The breaking of the stagnant silence was accomplished by Grantaire, who swung his legs down over the fractured wood.

“What are you doing?”

Enjolras shook his head, as if to say ‘nothing’, and Grantaire shrugged in acceptance.

“It’s weird how it looks so small from up here, the barricade I mean.” He said, more to himself than to Enjolras, and raised his foot.

It was Enjolras’ turn to ask, “what are you doing, Grantaire?”

He smiled, squinting his eye, and tilting his head to the right, “It looks as though it fits under my boot. Go on, try it.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes but did as he was told, lifting his left leg and squinting.

Grantaire was right, of course, it _did_ seem like the barricade was small enough to be squashed under a shoe. He thought about the guards and their imminent and oncoming attack, how their steel-capped feet would be tearing the barricade to shreds, how his own shoes would be sodden with the blood of his friends, of himself. A red river running through the streets, and pooling around the very wood-based formation that they were staring at. He shook his head again, loosening his cravat around his neck.

“Stop.”

“Why?” Grantaire asked, confused. They were only playing around.

“Just stop. Please.” He almost pleaded, looking up at Grantaire with a tragic emotion that he had never seen before on the otherwise resplendent man.

“Alright.”

They sat there, shoulder to shoulder, for a few minutes as the silence enveloped them once more.

 

“What does it mean to have purpose in life?” Enjolras asked suddenly, and Grantaire scoffed.

“Where is this coming from?”

Turning to face him, one knee over the other, he repeated the question. Grantaire laughed.

“You want to know why you are alive, yet to do that you have to realise, as I have, that life itself is completely meaningless and that soon, we will all be entirely devoured by the repetition of the mundane.”

“Grantaire.”

“You are trying to tear yourself away from the omniscient and blindingly harsh glow of injustice only to find your muscles have forgotten what it means to be living. Why do foxes chase themselves? Why do young men so often turn into Orpheus? Has the prospect of reaching adulthood frightened you?”

“Can yo-”

“You know, when I was very young, my father was afraid that I would walk into the Foret du Landais and be eaten by the wolves. He told me to keep a weapon in my hand at all times,” he gestured to the gun in Enjolras’ lap, “but somehow I feel like this is not what he meant.”

“Ple-” Enjolras tried again, but to no avail.

“Maybe my father was right, maybe the cowardice has always been in my veins, and as the end presses closer still, it’s beginning to dig through my lungs to take every breath that I have. I will drown in blood, and misery, and regret. Have you ever been drowned?”

“Grantaire, stop.”

“I mean truly drowned. Have you had your head held beneath the water until your insides feel heavy and black?”

He sighed, “no.”

Grantaire rubbed his face with the back of his hand, and coughed slightly.

“I didn’t think so. I had not learnt to swim when the river came for me. Sinewy currents and a lazuli artery, and I, a small boy, thrashing violently. My father pulled me out by the fabric of my ruined shirt, beat me until I was blue for being so careless. He asked me why there is salt in both human tears and the sea, and I couldn’t tell him. It is so you can float. You cannot float in a river, a river of blood, a river of tears, a river of water. I’m not ready to sink in this.”

“You can leave, you know that.” He replied, a little frustrated.

Grantaire laughed again, sarcastically this time, “but you won’t.”

“No,” Enjolras agreed, bowing his head, “I won’t.”

“Then we shall sit here and watch as the sun dips below the godforsaken horizon for the very last time that we are living. And I shall hold your hand, and you shan’t complain. And tomorrow, whatever happens, we are going to jump into the river with rocks in our pockets and ball chains on our feet. Agreed?”

Enjolras took him in, his tattered waistcoat, the shirt that had been torn and re-stitched too many times not to justify buying a new one, the unruly mane of hair, the unblinking eyes.

“Agreed.” He said at last, lifting his hand so that Grantaire could slide his underneath.

 

“Grantaire?”

“Mm.”

“I wanted you to know that I think this drowned thing is very beautiful.”


	3. jaune

Yellow is Grantaire’s favourite colour.

 

His bag is yellow, his curtains are yellow, his hands are often covered in yellow paint.

“I hate yellow.” Enjolras muttered one day, as Grantaire strolled in wearing a sunny yellow jumper.

“How come?” Marius asked, he liked it, yellow was the colour of Cosette’s hair, and--

He placed both hands palm-down on the table, and pushed himself up to a standing position, “it is the colour of unbrushed teeth, dead grass, the urine in the streets that you avoid so vehemently.”

Marius nodded in acknowledgement, and opened his mouth as if to reply, but they were swiftly interrupted by Grantaire.

“Well,” he said proudly, his bright yellow bag on his back, “ _I_ like it. So, there.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and cleared his throat, ready to start the meeting. Grantaire was not about to yield so easily.

“It is the colour of lemons ripe and ready to be squeezed, so tart that your nose scrunches up, and the colour of the first paint that I bought for myself with my own money. Yellow was the colour of the candle my father used to illuminate my room when I’d had a nightmare, to guard my soul and fight away the monsters. It’s the colour of the butter my mother added to her cakes when I was unhappy, and the colour of the sunflower field in my dreams. It’s the colour of the feeling of being hugged by my friends when they tell me they love me. I like yellow because if my happiness, which I have worked so tirelessly to keep for myself, was a colour, what other colour could it be?”

They sat in stunned silence, Enjolras’ lips moving but no sound being made. Eventually, he mustered up an “okay” and Grantaire gave him a smug smile, and ventured onto the balcony for a cigarette.

 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said quietly, tapping him lightly on the shoulder, “can we talk?”

“Of course.” He responded, stubbing out the lit end, and flicking it onto the street below.

“I wanted to apologise for how I acted before. It’s just a colour, I was being ridiculous.”

Grantaire laughed, “don’t worry. I didn’t think much of it.”

“I’m glad that you are happy, you know. You’ve come so far.”

He frowned in confusion, “what do you mean?”

Enjolras took a deep breath, “I mean that I have seen you dig yourself out of the hole that, admittedly, you did make, and then you dug yourself out of your own misery and filth. Your fingernails are perpetually stained with dirt, and the tips of your shoes are always muddy, but you’re fighting the good fight, and I, or should I say _we,_ are very proud of you.”

Grantaire turned to face him, one arm resting on the twisted wood of the railing, and smiled.

“That means a lot. Thank you, Enjolras.”

They shared a glance, and re-faced the city, listening to the gentle footsteps of horses pulling carriages in nearby avenues.

“How do you see the world?” Enjolras asked suddenly, “As an artist, I mean.”

Grantaire considered this for a moment, “I see the sky in the richness of silk flowers, fraying but soft. I see the Seine with the kind of hue that reminds me of longing, but there are always bubbles scattered across it, and maybe I could make out a pattern if I tried, but I never do.” He laughed, “everything is an oil-spill, swirled with the dark and washed away, and sometimes I can believe that the gentle brush of the sun that shines through them reworks the edges of the world.”

“That’s beautiful.” Enjolras tells him, a small smile on his face, and Grantaire nodded. Enjolras stepped out of the shade of the Musain to stand next to him.

“You’re going to hate this,” Grantaire said, the beginnings of a laugh in his voice.

“What?”

“You’re golden.”

Enjolras laughed, too. There was a love song somewhere in between where their shoulders brushed together and where their hearts beat in synchronisation but neither of them remembered how to read the signs. Their breath was soaked up by the humid air, two boys with too much time on their hands, and enough imagination to merge every star together to create one unholy deity to worship.

“Maybe I don’t hate yellow so much after all.”

 

 

 

Yellow is the colour of cowardice.

 

“I’m not going.”

“Yes, you are.” Enjolras clenched his fists in frustration. Grantaire was being especially pedantic that day, and it was really getting on his nerves.

“I’m not fighting for a cause that I don’t believe in, you can’t make me go.” He took another sip from his bottle, and lifted his legs to rest his heels against the table.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras growled, “I am not asking you, I am telling you what the plan is. You have to follow orders.”

“No, I don’t.” Grantaire smiled sarcastically, “you’re not the boss of me.”

“I’m the leader!”

“Hey,” said Combeferre slightly dejectedly from behind him, “I thought you said we didn’t have a leader. You said leadership should be democratically elected, and the last time _I_ heard, we hadn’t elected anybody.”

Enjolras curled and uncurled his fingers, breathing deeply, “you know what I mean, Combeferre. Please don’t get involved.”

“I’m just saying, you’re no more the leader than any of us, even Grantaire.”

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes sparkling with mischief, “even me.”

Enjolras began to lose his temper, “if you don’t join us, you are a coward. Plain and simple.”

Grantaire shrugged, “then I’m a coward, I don’t care. I’m not going.”

“Grantaire!” He shouted, and slammed his hand down onto the table. It shook.

He rose to challenge him, drink abandoned, “I’m not you, Enjolras, I’m not talking, wide eyed and hopeful, about a world we _might_ see. We have iron around our ankles, chains binding us to mortality, and yet you seem to have this Icarian fantasy on which your thoughts fly away. We are humans, not immortals. Do you even know what happened to Icarus?”

“You told me that I was born with fire burning at the root of my heart, the base of my throat, and the bottom of my lungs. I refuse to let you be the one to snuff me out; if you aren’t joining in then fine, leave immediately.”

Grantaire levelled him, his own hands shaking, “I have told you to watch out, that you might be singed, and you kept telling me that you could feel yourself burning, you could smell the smoke of revolution; you may have been born aflame, but I suspect that fire will be your deathbed, too.”

“If I live to see the fire die in me, I don’t know who I would be then, and I don’t want to know that person. I would be like you – made only of ashes, the memory of warmth, the aftertaste of bravery.”

Courfeyrac and Bahorel both stood up at the same time, standing beside each boy and trying to calm them down. It did not work.

“Are you insinuating that I am not brave?” Grantaire asked, his voice a mixture of anger and pain.

Enjolras scoffed, “I am _telling you_ that you are not brave.”

Grantaire shook his head in admonishment, “you do not understand bravery. You think it is standing strong in the face of adversity, dying with your hands wrapped around a sword, sacrificing yourself so that others may simply replace you and martyr themselves, too.”

Bahorel held him by the shoulders, and tried to pull him down onto his empty seat. He stood, resilient.

“I am braver than you would ever imagine. I come here, every single time there is a meeting, and I listen to you preach your tales of rebellion, mere children’s bedtime stories, and I watch you, glorious and naïve, tell the world that you will kill yourself for a cause that can only ever be described as futile. I come here, and I sit before you, empty glass and a full heart, and I go home, and I live an endless cycle of misery because I know, at the end of this, I’ll be losing everything that my mother told me to hold close. Try to tell me I’m not brave.”

Enjolras broke free from Courfeyrac’s grip, and shoved Grantaire as hard as he could, forcing him backwards into the edge of a table, and watching him wince in pain.

“I should have known, but forgive me for being _so_ naïve.” He spat, “you want me to be soft, and delicate, but I will never be so easily breakable.” He picked up a vase from the table closest to him, and threw it at the wall behind Grantaire’s head. Cutlery spilt everywhere as it smashed, and Grantaire watched it fall to the floor. Bent spoons, sharp knives, the forks are dull;

And so are Enjolras’ eyes when he tells him, “I will never love you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just wanted to say that these aren't necessarily connected lol just a lil collection of random sad events  
> (like my life amiright)


	4. vert

Green is the colour of Enjolras’ notebook.

 

He left it behind, uncharacteristically absentminded, one evening after a particularly taxing meeting, in which he had been interrupted no less than seven (7) times. Jehan and Grantaire had been the last out, it was their turn to put all of the chairs atop the tables, according to the chart that Combeferre had painstakingly drawn up a few weeks before.

“Is this yours?” Jehan had asked him, picking it up gently. Grantaire leant over their shoulder to look at it before telling them firmly that it was not. They opened it, and delicately traced the words on the very first page. _Property of Enjolras, do not touch._

“Ah,” Grantaire chucked, “jackpot.”

“No.” Jehan said quickly, snapping it shut, “It said don’t touch.”

To this, Grantaire smiled, “when have I ever obeyed orders from Enjolras?”

As Jehan was taking this in, he snatched it out of their hands. They lunged to take it back, but Grantaire was taller and faster; he flicked through the pages and recognised the familiar, scrawled handwriting.

There were pages upon pages of plans, reams of what-ifs and maybes, a long list of places, with seemingly random notations beside them in red ink that had bled through on some of the sides. He stopped at one when he spotted his own name. It was amongst a rabble of what appeared to be observations:

_Grantaire is a pattern, he is a loud laugh, he is a wild card. And I can see now, that a smirk from across the room – thanks to a strong drink from the nearly empty bar, and a coat drenched from the rain – is a testament to unconditional love._

“Oh my God.” He whispered, and Jehan took the opportunity to wrench it from his hands. They were laughing, and then suddenly, they were not.

“Oh,” was all they said, as their eyes scanned over what he had just read, “Grantaire.”

He didn’t reply, just concentrated on trying to force all of the blood back out of his head, to stop the roaring in his ears.

“Grantaire,” Jehan repeated, “you can’t tell him. He can’t know that you know.”

“But now I know that he knows how I feel. How can I not tell him that I know that he knows that I know that he knows?”

They shook their head, “that didn’t make sense, but I shall reiterate what I just said: you can’t mention it.”

Grantaire swallowed thickly, and nodded, albeit slowly.

“alright.”

 

“Good morning!” Enjolras said cheerfully the next day, as he swept into the library that they had arranged to meet in.

“Hello,” Grantaire replied, holding his notebook in an outstretched hand, “you forgot this yesterday.”

Enjolras’ face instantly paled, and he placed his bag on the table. “Ah. Did you, um, did you read it? Or…”

“No,” He lied, and faked a smile, “here.”

Enjolras thanked him, and tucked it quickly into one of the side pockets of his satchel. The colour made its way back to his cheeks, and he sat down.

“I didn’t expect you to be early.” He remarked, lifting up one knee to loosen the laces on his boots.

Grantaire shrugged, “I had nothing better to do this morning.”

Enjolras smiled absently, and coughed, looking at the books around him.

“We’re in the history section,” he said, “how fitting.”

“Mm.” Grantaire hummed, and tried to keep his eyes down.

Enjolras didn’t seem to notice, “do you think we could find our story in history books one day?”

“ _Our_ story?” Grantaire asked, wishing that his neck wouldn’t get so hot.

Enjolras nodded enthusiastically, “after the barricade. We’ll be changing France, for the better obviously, so I imagine we will be.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess.”

It was as though Enjolras was immune to anything other than excitement for their upcoming plans, so he didn’t find it at all noteworthy that Grantaire was being a bit different.

After a few minutes of silence, other than the scratch of Enjolras’ pencil as he carefully re-wrote the minutes from the previous evening, Grantaire finally couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“When was the last time it rained?”

Enjolras looked up, confused, “Um, maybe a week ago. Why?”

He couldn’t help himself, and blurted out, “because I did read your notebook.”

Enjolras’ eyes flashed, and he furrowed his eyebrows, “ah.”

“I’m really sorry, Jehan picked it up, and—”

He put his hand up to stop Grantaire from speaking, “I don’t need to know.”

His cheeks were pink, and Grantaire smiled slightly.

“I’m sorry.” He said again, and Enjolras shook it away, “it doesn’t matter.”

It fell silent once more, and Grantaire bit the inside of his mouth nervously.

“Would you mind,” he began slowly, “if we were written in the history books, side by side?”

Enjolras couldn’t hide the smile on his face.

“No. Not at all.”

 

 

Green is the colour of broken glass.

 

The ground floor of the café is a sea of shattered bottles, some spilling whiskey and wine onto the floor, some with acid still fizzing from their fractured necks. Grantaire held his breath, trying to escape the stench of blood swimming inside his mouth like poison. He opened his eyes wide, and watched the future that Enjolras had promised crash around him, like the crumbling columns of a forgotten temple.

His head swivelled from side to side, counting his friends as they lay dead around him. He was by no means a hero, but he would have battled every guard if it meant he could save them. He looked down at his hands and saw the ghosting shades of red, the shards still pricking his fingertips as he ran them along the wall.

That was when he knew he had a heart, because he could feel it breaking, like the glass at his feet. Little bits fell away as he saw each face, until finally, it cracked entirely. He took a breath, and thought seriously about slicing his throat. Sweat began to bead at the back of his neck. They were his brothers, the blood to his body.

The taunting rush of wind caught in his hair, and stung his upturned face as he saw the bullet holes in the ceiling. _There are more upstairs._

He mounted the steps, and then choked.

 

In the golden rays of dusk, Enjolras looked a little bit more like an angel than Grantaire’s corrupted soul could cope with. In the dancing light, he looked too much like a hero for Grantaire to keep him locked in the cage of his broken heart. He looked just dangerous enough to be the other half of him. Grantaire looked at him and wondered if even the heavenly can dance in the dark. He looked at the guards, and wondered if they would have long enough to find out.

In his life, all he had wanted was that four-lettered emotion; all he had wanted was him. And, taking his place beside him, he had been granted it.

Love was the smell of his hair, it was the bruises forming on his cheek that would never receive enough blood to show themselves fully, it was his ragged breathing, it was their hands pressed together—

It was the two of them, in the aftermath, picking up the shattered pieces of what they had created, cradling the serrated edges in the nest of their joined hands. Kissing the broken glass, they called it love. Swallowing the broken glass, they called it remembrance.

And one day, someone would bury the broken glass, and they would call it history.


	5. bleu

Blue is the colour of the sky when they meet for the first time.

 

It was July, and between heat waves and summer storms, Grantaire discovered a boy with golden hair. He had a smile that, although it was rare, held everything good in the world. He was beautiful, like a son of the gods. Grantaire was just a boy, lonely and hurting in the way that some always are.

Against the backdrop of Paris’ lights, they were introduced.

“Wonderful to meet you.” Enjolras said, in a way that suggested it was not _that_ wonderful, more average.

Grantaire refused to let his smile falter, “you too.”

“As you have probably heard, we are running quite a mission here.” Enjolras explained, motioning to the rest of the Amis. Grantaire nodded, and looked around at them. He recognised a few faces. One boy was lighting candles, and soon the whole room was lit up.

Outlined in gold and summer nights, Enjolras’ eyes took him back to happier times, before he realised that people could bleed, and the world was a softer place, and he was a kinder person. He remembered that Icarus lost his wings by flying too close to the sun; and thought that perhaps he would, as well.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asked him, and he realised that he had been staring at him.

“Sorry.” He faked a smile, "I'm fine, happy." He moved to turn, but a hand on his shoulder stopped his movements.

“From one to ten, how happy are you?”

Grantaire was floored. He very almost said four, but it floated in his throat like bile. He shrugged his shoulders. Six, seven, eight when the sun was out. The day before he had laughed past a three, which, in his opinion, made it a four-point-five. The solid five panic attack of the previous Tuesday felt like a thorn, just a normal day full of a soft six-point-one earthquake after last night’s close-to-a-two. But what if the next day would be a one? A day where alarms blare in every part of him but he was stuck behind glass watching himself burn down. He kept numbers like nine and ten out of his mind, those are for people who are in love. Nine and ten are wedding numbers, are the birth-of-first-child numbers. And those hadn’t happened to him yet. Maybe it was a five. Average. He wasn’t going to kill himself, but he wasn’t great. Could be better, could be worse. He needed help, but he didn’t want anyone to worry, even though maybe he needed someone to worry, because he couldn’t worry about himself. But what if five was too high? Or too low, or—

“From one, to ten,” Enjolras repeated into his silence, “and please be honest.”

“Five.” Grantaire said weakly, and tried desperately to seem brave.

Enjolras nodded, and offered him a genuine smile, “okay.”

“Is okay good?”

“Grantaire,” He said softly, and Grantaire felt his voice flood through him like warmth, “okay is brilliant.”

“Right.” He attempted a lopsided smile, but he felt it slip off his face. Nobody had tried like this before. Enjolras got a little closer, closing the gap between them, so the others couldn’t hear.

“Nothing lasts forever, not even the rain. Not even forever. It’s normal to be afraid sometimes, I don’t think people say that enough.” He tapped Grantaire’s arm, “blood beneath your fingernails isn’t easy to clean. You are a person of value, and perhaps you won’t matter in a thousand years, but right now you do.”

Grantaire felt tears prick in his eyes, “thank you.” Enjolras’ arms wove around him, and he found himself pressed into his shoulder, “it’s good to have you here.” He told him gently, and Grantaire smiled, for real this time.

“It’s good to be here.”

_Here, on Earth, with you, in this place. It’s good to be alive. It’s good to be here, and I am happy to be here with you, to be living in a world that you inhabit. It is good._

“Yeah?” Enjolras grinned, rubbing his back.

Grantaire exploded inside, and let himself grin back, crooked, and probably hideous, but real and present and _alive._

“Yeah.”

 

 

 

Blue is the colour of Enjolras’ eyes.

 

They volley rang out, and for a millisecond, he didn’t even know where he had been shot. The only real pain he felt was from an exit wound behind his ear. It was an excruciating, burning sensation, and he felt hot blood pour out, down his front. The force threw him backwards, and the darkness quickly encompassed him, somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware that Grantaire was beside him. His leg twitched once, and met resistance, so he knew that he was there, too.

He was dead. His body hung from the window like a white flag of surrender, but it was anything _but_ that. On the lower floor, greyness covered the row of boys as they lay together. A string of skeletons etched into the book of sorrow; violence their last memory as they slept in deadly peace.

His scarlet jacket was ripped on one sleeve, the seams between his shoulder and his arm irreparably stretched. Though, who would repair the jacket of a dead boy? His white shirt was caked in dirt and blood, some his own, some not. His black trousers were somehow darker, the stains of red and brown littering his thighs. One boot was falling off, the other trapped under the bay window, keeping him aloft.

The face of a dead boy is never pretty; never what it was in life. Enjolras was a holy ghost, sent from above to make the world a better place, if only for himself. He had seen the second coming of the waves, and in the shadow of the encroaching doom he did not move, in the face of the bitter sea, he did not cower away, he walked calmly into the cold darkness, he went noiselessly and became like those before him, a stoic rock emitting light in the lack of.

His mouth was open, ever-so-slightly, and so were his eyes. So bright in life, and so dark in death, those eyes had seen love, loss, and battle. Those eyes had seen the light leave others, had watched fate approach with hostility. Those eyes had stared down a fleet of soldiers, and they had remained open, unblinking, unwavering in the face of certain death.

The world’s cruelty is evident in the night, when no artificial glow pollutes the frigid constellations. The sky, wounded, marred by centuries of pinpoint supernova scars echoed in his eyes, the same blue that people had written odes about; the same blue that people had drowned in.

His eyes were blue, determined and piercing. His eyes were blue, calm and serene.

 

His eyes were blue, and they were open.


	6. violet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: alcoholism, mental illness, self-medication, violence.

Purple is the colour of Enjolras’ bedroom.

 

Grantaire wasn’t sure entirely how he found himself there, clutching an armful of rolled-up posters to his chest. The walls were a light lavender, with lilac curtains on the big window next to his bed. Everything else was white, even the bedsheets. It was gentle, and soft, and _not_ Enjolras. And yet, it definitely **was** his room, his belongings were scattered across the desk, his clothes hung on the railing on the opposite wall, pictures of his family and friends were everywhere. He couldn’t actually compute it in his mind: tough and terrible Enjolras had such a … _girly_ room?

He had been commissioned by Courfeyrac to create some recruitment posters the week before, and had followed the address written on a torn-out page of a notepad to the very flat he was standing in. There had been a note tacked onto the door, telling him that Courfeyrac was out running errands, so to just leave the posters in his room. Now, it is important to understand that Grantaire had not been to the flat prior to this, but reckoned that there was a 50/50 chance of getting the right room. When he entered the bathroom for the third time in a row, he did lower it significantly to 20/80.

Entering the room, leaving the door open behind him, he stared with mouth agape at everything he could set his eyes upon. The bedspread, the **frilly** bedsheets, the ivory photo frames, the incredibly annotated books on his bedside table, the—

“What are you doing in here?” Enjolras demanded, one hand on the door handle, one on his hip.

Grantaire spun to face him, and dropped two of his posters.

“I—Courfeyrac and…” he motioned to the posters in his arms, and bent to pick up the fallen ones.

“Well, this is not his bedroom.” He said angrily, opening the door wider, “get out, if you please.”

“Sorry.” Grantaire told him quickly, hurrying so as to appease him more so than he had done by being caught in his private space.

“If you tell anyone,” Enjolras hissed, “they won’t believe you. I’ll tell them you’re lying.”

Grantaire fought away the smirk that threatened to emerge, “I won’t. Sorry, again.”

Enjolras nodded at this, and slammed the door behind him as he went in. Grantaire took a long, deep breath, and sat down on the sofa, posters beginning to tumble out of his grasp.

 

“Oh, hello.” Courfeyrac greeted, hanging his coat on the hook, “I didn’t expect you to be here when I got back. Did you see my note, then?”

“Yes. Look—”

“Is Enj back? I’m starving. Are you hungry?” Courfeyrac continued, moving into the corridor.

“Wait!” Grantaire called, “wait just a second.”

Courfeyrac frowned, but stepped out of the hallway and back into the living room, “is everything alright?”

“Why didn’t you tell me about his room?”

He laughed, “I thought you knew. He’s not particularly shy about it, when Cosette was here—”

“ _Cosette_ has been here?” Grantaire spluttered, dropping another scroll. Courfeyrac shrugged, “yeah. She comes whenever Marius comes, so like, a lot.”

He sat back down and held his head in his hands, “this is mental. Enjolras and Cosette, I just…”

Courfeyrac stretched and patted him on the head, “yeah, they paint their nails together. I’m going to get him, I really do need to eat.”

Grantaire couldn’t believe what he was being told. He had never, ever noticed Enjolras with painted nails; it wasn’t something he’d have been able to miss, either, since Enjolras almost exclusively talked with his hands. It felt like his head was spinning.

“Why are you still here?” Enjolras asked, now wearing no waistcoat or shoes. His socks made a soft padding noise as he walked, “Marius is coming soon.”

“Right.” Grantaire understood, that meant it was time to leave, “I’ll be off.”

Courfeyrac caught his arm, “no, no. You’ve made all these posters. Stay, I’ll repay you with food.”

“You don’t have to, I can eat at ho—”

“I’m making goulash!” Courfeyrac announced, ignoring the protests from both boys.

 

When Marius (and Cosette) arrived, they were sitting at opposite ends of the same sofa. Enjolras had his arms crossed in irritation, Grantaire running a hand through his tangled hair.

Enjolras stood to greet them, hugging Marius, and kissing Cosette. “Grantaire is here, as you can see.” He grumbled. Grantaire smiled sheepishly, and was pulled into a hug by Cosette.

“Lovely to see you again.” She beamed, and he felt somewhat reassured. She set her bag down on the table in front of them, and began pulling tinted oils from it.

“Do you have a cloth?” She asked Enjolras, still rummaging, “I think I’ve forgotten mine.”

He glared at Grantaire, and left the room. Grantaire was very, very confused.

“What do you need a cloth for?”

She smiled, “for our nails. Would you like me to do yours?”

He swallowed, and then nodded. He had seen Jehan sporting some tinted nails in the past, and had always admired it.

“Well,” she told him, “pick a colour and I’ll start right away.”

 

He picked silver, and Enjolras hated it. _He_ was going to pick silver, but after Grantaire had, he obviously couldn’t because that would mean matching with _Grantaire._ He watched him joke with Cosette, watched the layers of paint be scrubbed away by her little nail tools, and aggressively ignored the hammering in his chest.

When it was his turn, Cosette wasn’t properly paying attention, her head turned in conversation with Marius, who was leaning against the back of the sofa, observing them.

He tried to stop her, but it was too late. By the time he had noticed what she was doing, she had already done it. He had silver nails. And so did Grantaire. He and Grantaire had **matching** silver nails.

Though, when he accidentally caught his eye, and saw Grantaire’s mouth twitch into a very bright grin, he didn’t seem to mind nearly as much as he had before.

 

 

Purple is the colour of Grantaire’s bruises.

 

He spat the blood filling his mouth onto the floor as he leant heavily against the wall. Next to him, his competitor was being held up by a friend. Another was counting money, and Grantaire kept a close eye on him. It had happened before that he won, but was robbed of his winnings.

“12 francs. Nice work.”

Grantaire glared at him, and wiped his mouth with the back of his scratched hand, “thanks.”

He watched them leave, and closed his eyes, breathing shallowly. It had started a few months ago, when university let out for the summer. He suddenly had a seemingly endless amount of days to do with what he pleased; painting, drawing, dancing, boxing, drinking, drinking, drinking. 12 francs would buy two more bottles of wine from the Pontneuf vineyard, or three small whiskies. He considered this as he stuffed the notes into his back pocket.

Rounding the corner, making his way nonchalantly to the off-licence shop, he saw a family. The father was not much older than him, if indeed he was older at all, and the mother was undeniably beautiful. She was carrying a small child, a little girl, with short brown hair, in a little pink coat. He averted his gaze, couldn’t help but think that he would never understand their happiness; he had scrounged away all joy that he had ever had, and he was left hollow, padding himself out with alcohol and the opioids that Joly would occasionally give him. Some nights he stared up at the sky, begging anyone who would listen to let him find comfort in the hands of a friend, to forgive him for losing his way. He hoped that one day, someone would take his hands and kiss them, so he could stop burning, so he could stop hurting, and he could feel a little bit more like the soul he used to be.

The stars stayed silent, so he tattooed the names of those who hurt him and wore them like battle scars across his heart. He couldn’t decide if he was proud of living for so long, or miserable that it had been such a time and he was still suffering.

Entering the shop, he slid his money on the counter towards the clerk.

“The usual?”

“Yeah.”

 

He fell apart when he got home. Looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, the cool tiles against his hands, he felt sick.

“You are disgusting.” He said to his reflection, his split lip curling.

His eyes travelled from the cut on his forehead, clumping his fringe together with blood, down to the bruise on his jaw. Turning his head, he placed two fingers on it and pressed. The pain flicked through his face, and he smiled. He was definitely alive.

Often, he wondered why he hadn’t chosen death sooner. He was not cut out for life, never had been, not since his first, gasping breath. There was something inside of him that hurt all the time, and he was a mess and he was lonely or maybe he was just bitter, but he knew his head was a storm of thoughts and his chest was completely empty.

He took a drink from his bottle; he had found that, if you drink enough, whisky tastes like love. He sighed, and pulled on a clean nightshirt. There was a knock at the door, but he ignored it, taking another drink. He didn’t care about the spinning, and the slurring, and the vomiting. The anger, and the screaming, and the crying. The disorientation, the broken bones, the blackouts. He welcomed waking up at 5am, with his heart beating out of his ribcage and his anxiety so high that he believed he was about to die, because at least that meant he was waking up at all. He was ambivalent towards the shame, he didn’t give apologies for the words he didn’t remember saying, he ignored the way his friends looked at him as they realised he had let them down again.

Trudging to his bed, he curled his fingers around the glass in his hand. He drank and drank, until it ran down his throat like water, and the room began to fracture. He felt his eyes grow heavy, and laughed, at nothing, at everything, at himself. He was pathetic. His mind wandered, as it so frequently did, to Enjolras. He could have sworn that Enjolras was somewhere at the bottom of one of those bottles. He had missed so many meetings, he couldn’t go to rallies because he was passed out in the café. Enjolras probably hated him.

The thought stung, and tears welled behind his eyelids. Nobody knew of the sadness that he refused to speak of, the feelings that haunted him in the ache of midnight. He finished drinking what was left, and hung his arm over the edge of the bed. He heard the bottle smash as it hit the hardwood floor. Enjolras definitely hated him.

Grantaire closed his eyes, pretending that the throbbing in his head was meant to be there, and sighed deeply.

“I love you.” He said into the darkness, “I love you so much.”

The silence hurt more than he expected it to.

As he rolled over onto his side, he felt the first wave of nausea hit, and bolted to the bathroom. Holding his straggly hair back with one hand, he groaned, his broken voice echoing in the toilet bowl.

 

“I love you,” he repeated, “and I’m so sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(

**Author's Note:**

> xxx


End file.
